Waiting
by shiiki
Summary: An anxious mother waits for her magical daughter to come home.


**WAITING  
**by _shiiki_

* * *

_Dedicated to everyone who has had to bear the insufferable pain of waiting for news about the ones they love._

* * *

I'm waiting, as I have done year after year, for Hermione to come home. 

The rain outside is pattering on the roof like the footfalls of many-legged animals, large drops slamming against the tiles, the walls, the pavement. A thunderstorm: nature's own symphony of light and sound. Every ten seconds the night sky is illuminated by a spectacular streak of luminescence, followed almost immediately by a reverberating clap of deafening thunder.

A natural weather phenomenon. As was the hurricane that devastated the North Country last week. And the eruption of a previously dormant volcano in Scotland a week before that. Or that catastrophic earthquake in Wales a month ago.

A thousand years ago, people would say that these calamities were the consequence of a battle between higher powers. Or that they were sent down as a punishment for the wrong-doing of man.

They wouldn't be far wrong, today.

As a dentist, my background is firmly rooted in science. I know that there's a logical explanation for the natural disasters that occur in our world: a movement of pressure systems, the build-up of stress beneath volcanic rock, the shifting of tectonic plates below the earth's surface. I should be the last to join the camp that insists these catastrophes are caused by an angry deity, that the Judgment Day is arriving soon.

But I know things that most people don't.

I know of a world running parallel to ours, a world where the impossible is a daily occurrence. People teleport themselves halfway across Britain with a twirl; items appear out of mid-air at a flick; inanimate objects set themselves moving with a single command.

The world of magic exists, but it is not as easy or comfortable as we would imagine.

This thunderstorm that whips the trees outside into a frenzy might be a normal lightning storm. It might also be the work of a sadistic sorcerer, in his determination to eradicate the world of non-magical people.

Just as the hurricane, the eruption, and the earthquake which claimed millions of lives were not the random, unfortunate natural disasters that they seemed to be.

How do I know what's real and what's not, then?

I don't. Not really. I can only imagine that what I see may have a deeper, more sinister meaning to it. I can only wonder if the horrible events that take place around me actually stem from that hidden world.

I do not belong to that world, of magic and mayhem. But you don't have to be a witch or wizard to know the truth. Just being related to one is enough.

My daughter, Hermione – my precious, only child – is there. This is how I know that what we see may not be what is real. Hermione can do all of the impossible: disappear into thin air and reappear at another point miles away in the space of a split second, cast spells with a simply swish of her wand, navigate places that are invisible to me until she steers me through.

At first, it seemed to me that magic would solve all problems. Just think of the possibilities! Wouldn't it be lovely, if we could just wave a wand and have peace, joy, and love throughout the world?

It didn't take long for me to be disillusioned. I watched Hermione return from school, year after year, each time looking more alarmingly mature and world-weary. And finally, last month, she returned for what I fervently hope and pray will not be the last time.

'We're in a war, Mum,' she said gently, as though breaking the news to a small child. 'I didn't want to tell you, because you'd be worried.'

And she had kept it a secret from me, protecting me as if she were the mother and I the daughter.

'I have to fight, with Harry and Ron, because otherwise You-Know-Who – _Voldemort_,' she corrected herself, 'will destroy the magical world. He'd eliminate everyone who isn't of pure magical blood.'

'Like Hitler – and the Holocaust,' I said, and she had to pause to remember the history lessons of what seemed like a lifetime ago.

'Exactly, Mum. You understand, right?'

I didn't, but it didn't matter, because she left anyway. I never had the chance to learn fully who this Voldemort character was, why he seemed bent on destroying the world, or how exactly Hermione and her friends were going to defeat him. I knew only that somewhere in the magical world, a war was being fought.

And like the battles of the ancient gods, the aftermath of each altercation imprints itself as a horrible disaster in which we, the non-magical population, bear the casualties in thousands.

It's an injustice that I'm proud Hermione is fighting against. We've brought her up that way – to stand against prejudice and stick up for the rights of the helpless.

I just never imagined that it would turn out this way – with my husband and me the hapless victims, and Hermione the one with the chance of making a difference. When she was a child, I'd always believed we would protect her, shield her from the horrors of the world.

In the end, she entered a different world – where we were powerless to follow. A realm from which I can gather no information, except for what filters through to my own world: calamities reported on the seven o'clock news. Even then, I can only guess at whether what I am hearing is the backlash of Hermione's war. And I cannot be sure if Hermione has been involved, or God forbid, injured (I will _not_ allow myself to imagine her killed).

Uncertainty is not an enjoyable place to be. There are days when the fear and anxiety grips my heart with an iron-like vice, and I cannot help but break down and cry. There are times when I cannot draw my eyes away from the sky, hoping so hard that I think I will burst, wishing desperately to see an owl flying my way, bringing news of my daughter.

But Hermione does not write. She explained that where she would be going, it might be difficult to communicate.

'Owls can be traced, Mum. And you'll be safer if you don't know anything.'

I didn't tell her that my safety was a small thing to trade in return for hers. Because I realised that if the circumstances were reversed, I would probably have done the same thing in her position. If by discontinuing correspondence with Hermione, I could keep her protected, I would do it.

Moreover, I know that when her work is finished, and she has eradicated the evil plaguing her world, she will return, and I will be waiting for her with open arms. I know when this will happen: when the news every night no longer turns up new disasters with every broadcast.

But until then, I can do nothing except what I have done every summer for the past six years.

Wait and pray that my Hermione will come home soon.

* * *

_**A/N**: This fic was inspired by the aftermath of the Indonesian earthquake in Bantul, on May 27, 2006. I'd like to offer my sympathy to all who were, or had loved ones involved in the quake. My heart goes out to you._

_I'd like to thank the lovely **punimpotter** for agreeing to look through this, and encouraging me to submit it! _


End file.
